Lima
by Tashilover
Summary: Kieren is kidnapped by a serial killer. Kieren!Whump
1. Chapter 1

**Warning**: Body horror, violence, gore, non-con/dub-con situations, and torture.

()

To this day, Kieren still has so many questions not yet answered. He didn't mean the existential questions either like, _why are we here? What are our purpose?_ His questions were a lot more simple and could probably be answered eventually.

Like, _why do we blink?_ The whole point of blinking was to clean the eye and wipe away any foreign debris. He was dead. He didn't produce tears, he didn't produce saliva or any other bodily fluid. So why blink? When he asked that question back at the compound, he got laughed at by the others.

There were other questions that flittered through Kieren's head he has never said out loud. Why didn't he smell? Why can he register pressure but not actual touch?

"Ooh... aren't you a pretty one?"

This man was paler than Kieren was, if that physically possible. However, this man was _alive._ The way he practically salivated at the sight of Kieren was enough to tell. He was also immensely tall, bald, and had shoulders like a truck. It was actually a pretty ludicrous sight to see, considering he was as thin and bony as Kieren was.

"I like the pretty ones," the man repeated. He went to the side, grabbing a pair of blue latex gloves from a box. He snapped them on. "They scream the loudest."

The metal seat Kieren was strapped down to was clearly well-used. There were small indentations in the arm rests, especially around where his fingers sat. How many were strapped here, digging their nails in complete horror? Even the leather straps bounding his arms and legs were stained black with ancient blood.

"I'm a PDS sufferer," Kieren tried to say calmly. He wanted to scream, wanted to run. How could he feel like he was about to hyperventilate if his lungs and heart weren't working? "I can't feel pain."

"I know," said the man. "It makes things a lot more interesting."

There were tools on a moveable tray sitting right next to Kieren. Surgical tools. Scalpels, hand saws, small scissors, pliers, one of those tiny mirrors dentists used. There was a basin, pins, and a beaker with its measurements printed on the side. The rest of the tools were all pointy instruments Kieren did not recognize.

"What are you, then?" Kieren asked. His head wasn't strapped down, allowing him to move, and yet he couldn't keep his eyes off the tray. "A doctor with a fetish? A serial killer?"

The man smiled at the second option. Oh, fuck. "My name is Alfred."

Don't say it, don't say it, don't say it. "Like Batman?"

Alfred sighed. "Yes," he groaned, rolling his eyes. "Like Batman. Now don't you dare make that joke again or else I'm going to remove your tongue."

While such a thing wouldn't hurt Kieren or kill him, he still needed his tongue to talk. "How many people have you killed?"

Kieren didn't know where he was. The room was spacious, nearly pure white in its walls. The floor was clean though there were drains sitting directly underneath him. _For the blood,_ his brain supplied darkly. If he can keep this psycho talking, maybe he could stall long enough for a rescue. That was assuming someone noticed him missing. He didn't even know how long he's been gone.

"More than you have," Alfred said. "I do have thank you though. I was nearly caught, but due to the Rising, you lot ate the lead detective on my case."

That was one consequence Kieren had not thought about during this whole time. So many places were burnt down, so many important documents destroyed. A few prisons opened their gates at the height of the panic to at least give the inmates a chance to escape. How many killers and rapists got away free?

"Hey," Alfred said suddenly, slapping Kieren's face lightly. "Don't drift away. We've barely started."

"Oh yeah? What are you going to do?" Kieren said with false bravado. "Kill me again? _I can't feel pain_. What part of that are you not getting?"

Alfred drew back, unimpressed. He stared at the boy for a long second, contemplating-

He suddenly reached behind him, grabbed a thick knife off the trey table, swung it forward, and hacked off Kieren's pinkie in a single hard strike.

Kieren cried out in alarm, sounding more like an animal than a human being. There was no pain, no blood, but the mere _sight_ of his severed finger haunted him. "Oh god," he wailed, curling in the rest of his digits. "Oh god, oh fuck..."

"Like I said," Alfred said, sweeping the finger off to the side, throwing it on the floor. "It makes things more interesting."


	2. Chapter 2

It was all psychological. Kieren almost wanted the pain, if it meant no longer he would have to face this.

Alfred -Kieren was never going to see Batman the same way again- didn't touch him for the rest of the evening. After cutting off Kieren's finger, he spent the rest of his time talking.

Just talking.

Nothing in particular. He talked about his favourite films, his favourite books and songs and jokes. He talked about the dog he owned when he was seventeen, a shitzu named Bobby.

But as he talked, he held Kieren's severed pinkie in his hands, idly playing with, picking his teeth with it, sniffing it, until finally he took a pair of surgical scissors, held the pinkie in between the blades and snipped it in half.

He continued talking about Bobby even as Kieren mutely watched the mutilated pinkie fall to the floor. So much for the hope of attaching it back to his hand.

Alfred then yawned, stating it was late and he wanted to go to sleep. "Tomorrow is a big day," he chirped. "Best to get our rest."

He picked up a knife, a long, thin, stabbing sort of knife, and held the tip right at Kieren's throat, right beneath his chin. Threat made, he started undoing the restraints.

Kieren thought about shoving forward, allowing the knife to go into his throat- it was not as if it could kill him- then thought better of it. It could still cut into his spine; it was long enough. The way it was angled, it could also be lodged under his brain.

There was no way Alfred could get that sort of accuracy but Kieren kept still. He hated to admit it, the fear kept him still.

Once he was done, Alfred straightened. He held the knife unwavering.

"You know," he said. "I read a lot of your activism online. Your arguments, your bullshit... a lot of you claim you're better than humans. That God gave you a second chance, that you're some kind of advance species. But do you know what I've realized about you all, both live and undead?"

He bent down, getting close to Kieren's face. The knife dug in the slightest, making Kieren hiss.

"_None of you want to die_."

With that, he pulled back. He reached down with his free hand, grabbed Kieren by the back of his neck, and dragged him out of the room.

()

In a small room just down the hall, Alfred shackled Kieren to the wall. His arms were raised above his head, a long, thin strip of metal holding his wrists against the wall. In this position he could sit or squat. If he tried to stand, he would only topple down, exacerbating his shoulders.

"See you in the morning," Alfred bid goodnight.

He didn't turn off the light, which Kieren was thankful for. Kieren has never been fearful of the dark, though the circumstances in question probably has given him a whole new set of phobias to worry about.

Even more, he wasn't alone.

There were two others there, chained in a similar fashion. A woman, another PDS sufferer, who was jolted awake when Alfred brought Kieren in. She watched in silence as he was chained, her grey eyes wide and curious. She didn't look to be harmed, from what Kieren could tell. There were rips in her dress, holes in her stockings. No makeup either, except for a hint of lipstick swiped on the side of her mouth.

The other was a man, a live man, just barely though. He had multiple wounds, bruises and cuts all over his face and body. His tattered clothes were stained with his blood. Every breath was a struggle for him, wet and deep. His eyes were open but nobody was home.

"He's been here before I was brought here," the woman said sympathetically. "I don't know how much longer he'll last."

"How... how long have you been here?" Kieren asked, his eyes unable to stray from the poor man.

"I don't know. I was grabbed on Wednesday."

Kieren bit his lip. "It's Saturday now."

"_Fuck_," she said. "It feels longer."

"Has he hurt you?"

She shook her head. "Hasn't even gotten me off this wall yet. But him," she nodded towards the man. "Takes him in the morning, he does. All I hear are... screams. He goes for an hour, sometimes two, if I'm counting right. Brings him back, chains him up. I don't even know his name."

"What's your name?" Kieren asked.

The woman seemed startled by the question. She smiled sadly. "Lydia."

Kieren nodded to her. "Kieren."


	3. Chapter 3

At some point in the night, the man died.

Kieren listened to him breath, every raise of his chest sounding like he had marbles rattling around in his lungs. Then suddenly, the man gasped, exhaled one last time and passed on.

"Sir...?" Lydia asked quietly. "Sir?"

The very first time Kieren had seen a dead body was at his grandmother's funeral when he was twelve. They had dolled her up beforehand. They rubbed blush on her cheeks, applied lipstick to her lips, and even styled her hair. She looked like she was sleeping. The makeup was so good, Jem had started asking outloud why grandma was in the casket, which terribly upsetted mum at the time.

The poor man did not look like he was sleeping. He looked _dead_. Not unlike Kieren or Simon looked like with their pale skin and white eyes, the man was just... dead.

"Goodbye, sir," Lydia said softly, bringing her knees up to her chest. "I'm sorry I didn't learn your name."

()

Lydia and Kieren had been talking quietly for the past two hours (or what Kieren thought had been two hours. He couldn't tell.) They talked about where they were from, their jobs, their interests. Kieren was explaining the difference between oil and acrylic paint when Lydia suddenly huffed and said, "This is so weird. We're in a serial killer's basement and we're talking about _paint_. God, what the fuck."

"I'm open for suggestions." Kieren tried not to sound snide. "You've been here longer. Does he have a pattern? A weakness you noticed?"

She shook her head. "The first night I was here, I tried screaming my head off. He's close enough to hear because he came down and slapped a leather mask over my face. The sick, kinky fuck. Otherwise, he keeps to himself till morning."

"Did you hear anything about him? Before this, I mean. Like on the news?"

Lydia made a face at him. "I was dead. So no."

Serial killers like Alfred killed for years, so there was a chance the both of them heard something on tv. Unfortunately nothing popped into Kieren's memory. Maybe the victims of Alfred were never found.

Kieren tested the iron clasp for the tenth billionth time. There was no give. "I don't know... maybe I can... break my fingers? Loosen my wrist and slip through?"

"Is that something you can do?"

"Maybe."

"Are you sure you want to do that? If you break your fingers, you can't heal them. And you already lost a pinky."

"Better than sitting here, waiting to be the next play thing."

After a moment of internal debate, Kieren decided to try to break his left hand. The pinkie was already missing, so he might as well not ruin his right hand. He hesitated, unsure how to do it. He's seen it done in action films and tv, but how do you really break a finger one-handed? Did he even have the strength behind his thumb to do it?

He might as well try. He bent his forefinger down and grasped the first knuckle with the tip of thumb. As hard as he could, he pressed down.

Nothing... was happening.

Either the angle was off, Kieren wasn't pressing down hard enough, or this was all bogus and tv lied to him. He kept trying, even on his right hand. He bit his lip, dug his feet in-

"Kieren," said Lydia. "Give it up."

With a huff, Kieren uncurled his fingers. "Damn. Damn!"

()

"How long has he been dead?"

Kieren was startled out of his sleep by Alfred's booming voice. He was actually surprised he even got to sleep. He thought fear would keep him awake. In reality, it helped to pull him under.

When neither Kieren or Lydia answered Alfred, he kicked Kieren's shoe. "I'mma not going to ask again. How long has he been dead?"

Arms up in shackles, Kieren did his best to shrug. "Don't know. Don't have a clock in here."

"Pretty and sarcastic," Alfred mumbled, bending down to the dead man. "What a great combination." He reached out and touched the body.

"Hmm..." He said, his hand pressing over the bruised and bloody-covered flesh. "He's only in the first stages of rigor mortis. That means he's been dead for only... five hours, maybe."

Without meaning to, Kieren found himself being impressed. It was a brief, passing feeling, and he hated himself for having it in the first place. How many dead bodies has Alfred interacted with to know from mere touch how long rigor mortis had set in?

Alfred reached over and undid the man's shackles. Kieren had expected the arms to drop, but they stayed up, still and unmoving. "Excuse me for a moment," Alfred said, grabbing the body to move it away. "I need to get rid of him before he begins to stink."

"Wait," Kieren said suddenly.

Surprisingly, Alfred stopped and looked at him, his eyebrow raised in question.

"His name," Kieren asked. His eyes glanced over to Lydia, then back to Alfred. "What was his name?"

A first name, a last name, or even a fake name. Just give something, please.

Alfred shrugged. He made the universal 'I don't know' noise, then proceeded to drag the body out of the door.

Once it closed behind him, Lydia buried her face in her arm, her face scrunching up painfully.


	4. Chapter 4

When Alfred returned two hours later, he changed his clothes. It was possibly one of the most terrifying things Kieren has ever seen.

Previously Alfred had been wearing a blue jumper and loose trousers. The guy even wore dark green crocs when he dragged the dead man out of the room. When he came back, he had a large, black, leather apron on. He wore safety goggle which rested on his forehead. He had white rubber gloves on, and wore thick, black boots.

He dressed like he expected to be _splattered on._

"Well now... which one should I choose?"

It shouldn't be physically possible, but Kieren felt his heart _skip a beat_. He couldn't explain the feeling of being kicked in the chest, the sudden fear dropping into his stomach. He didn't know, he didn't care- a notorious serial killer was back from disposing a corpse and was now deciding on his next play thing.

Alfred purposefully tapped his chin in a thoughtful manner as he considered Kieren and Lydia. "Hmmm..."

He pointed at Lydia. "Ennie-"

Then to Kieren. "Minny-"

Back to Lydia. "Minie-"

Lydia began to shake violently in her cuffs. She shook her head, her lips begging silently as she tried to move away by kicking out.

"Catch a tiger..."

All Kieren wanted to do was scream and shout, to go over and curl his body over Lydia and tell her everything was going to be okay.

"If he hollers..."

Lydia was only twenty-three. She died when she was clipped by a passing car. She had bled out internally. She was a website designer for a small, independent company. She liked cats, she has two brothers, neither of which she was close with. Her favourite song was Desperado by the Eagles and she hated chocolate chip mint ice cream.

"Ennie, minny, minie-"

"NAH NAH NAH NAH NAH NAH NAH NAH NAH- _BATMAN_!"

Alfred froze in mid-point towards Lydia. Slowly he turned his head towards Kieren.

Kieren was shaking just as bad. His knees were pulled up to his chest, his body already flinching from the anticipated blows. He took a shuddering breath and repeated,

"NAH NAH NAH NAH NAH NAH NAH NAH BATMAN! BATMAN! _BATMAN_!"

He was dead. He was so, so dead.

Lydia was gaping at him, her face a strange mixture of pure horror and unexplained delight. She was probably more shocked than he was that he dared to pull such a stunt.

Alfred kneeled down to face Kieren. As much as Kieren felt relief he was able to pull Alfred's attention away from Lydia, he was regretting it just as much. He reared back, shaking like a worm on a hook as Alfred reached forward and grasped him by the hair.

His head was roughly shoved down. He thought he was going to be decapitated.

A familiar pressure was on his back and he gasped. Alfred was giving him his neurotriptyline.

Alfred pulled back a second later, smoothing down Kieren's hair. The administrating needle he used looked home-made, and was much smaller than the hospital issued one. "You're funny," Alfred said with no real humour behind the words. "That's funny."

He stood up. He turned.

"NO-!" Kieren cried out, jerking forward. "STAY AWAY FROM HER!"

Lydia wailed incoherently as Alfred descended upon her. She tired to kick out at him, to keep him at bay, and he slmmed his foot against her knee, snapping her leg in half.

At the sight of her leg at an impossible angle, bending upwards at the knee, Lydia screamed in terror. With a quick twist, Alfred undid her locks, releasing her arms. She barely even noticed.

"No! No, please-!"

He grabbed her by her hair, and began dragging her out of the room like a caveman. Her fingers clawed at his hand, and when she broke skin, Alfred rammed her head against the wall next to the open door, stunning her.

She was still pawing at his hand, her eyes struggling to keep open. The fight was gone from her though. Just as Alfred finally pulled her away, Kieren watched as a streak of black blood rolled down her nose.

Alfred had not given her her shot of Neurotriptyline yet. By becoming rabid, did he find it easier to use her? Or did it make it more interesting?

"I hope she eats you!" Kieren yelled out to his back. "I hope... she..."

()

Unlike Lydia, who said she heard the screams of the poor dead man echoing through the walls, Kieren heard nothing. Not a scrape, not a whimper, not a growl, laughter, crying, or even general sounds of movement.

He strained his ears, held his breath to listen better. Maybe, maybe he heard a noise like a heavy object falling to the ground, but he wasn't sure.

He tried breaking his fingers again with the same useless result. He tried kicking at the lock in hopes of breaking it open but his foot never came near it. The angle was too awkward and his flexibility was shite.

At one point he even tried smashing his head against the lock. He couldn't bring himself to hit hard enough.

He has never felt so useless in his life.

How many people were in the same position he was? How many sat there like him, trying desperately to find a way to escape and unable to? Suddenly Kieren felt like an irresponsible tit, who never watched the news. Maybe if he spent more time learning about the world, he would have caught reference to Alfred's activities.

There was a lead detective. That meant not all of Alfred's crimes were left undiscovered. Somebody took notice. Someone was bound to take notice again.

Except Kieren wasn't sure he'll be alive for that next time.


	5. Chapter 5

It was even worse being alone.

Kieren heard it was _anticipation_ as the worse type of torture. He never thought about it much until now. His whole body was on edge, tense, waiting for the knife to descend, and it wasn't coming.

If only to fill the empty silence, he started going through his multiplication tables. He said them out loud, going as high as 15x16 before giving up because he didn't know what came after that. From there he recited the quadratic formula, Newton's law, the periodical table, poems, song lyrics, famous speeches, jokes, quotations, and at the moment, he was repeating the dialogue from his favourite film, Jurassic Park.

He got to the part where Samuel Jackson's character said, "Hold onto your butts," when the door suddenly opened.

"Where's Lydia?" Kieren immediately demanded as Alfred walked in. "What did you do to her?"

Alfred ignored him. In his right hand he held a clock, a hammer, a single nail between his fingers, and in his left he held a step ladder.

"Answer me, you fuck!"

Alfred placed the step ladder down, kicking it open with his foot. He positioned it right above where Lydia was chained to the wall. He placed down the clock, stepped up onto the ladder, chose a spot well above his head and started hammering in the nail.

He only needed to strike it four times. He bent down, grabbed the clock, got back up and hooked it on the nail. It hung at an angle.

He tired pushing it straight with his finger a few times, then gave up trying to fix it. he stepped down again, gathered his ladder and the hammer, and without a single glance at Kieren, left the room again.

()

It was fucking worse with the clock.

As unstimulated as Kieren was, in the quietness of the room, he was able to slip into his own mind and play out his favourite films with no problem. It was almost like meditation.

With the clock there, he could not concentrate. His whole focus was on that ticking second hand, every movement like a hammer slamming down upon his head. A whole second felt like a minute, a minute an hour, an hour a day. He tried to ignore it but it was next to impossible.

ticktickticktickticktickticktickticktickticktickticktickticktickticktickticktickticktickticktick-

Without meaning to, he started pulling his arms down, tugging on his wrists against the shackles. As each second pounded into his mind, the tugging continued, with a tiny bit more pressure each time.

There was just enough space for his wrist to rise up about an inch. He brought it down with enough force to tear into his skin, but he couldn't stop, not when that damn ticking was like a fucking jack hammer echoing in his ear-

A sharp, unknown pain suddenly erupted through his arms. He gasped at the familiar but forgotten sensation, and he twisted his head sharply to look at his wrists.

He was _bleeding_.

It wasn't the black, dead blood which oozed and congealed like thick paste. This was fresh, bright, _red_ blood seeping out the shredded skin of his wrists.

"What the hell..." he muttered in shock. He kept blinking, thinking perhaps he has gone mad. This was a hallucination brought on by fear. This couldn't be real.

The pain was real. Now that he wasn't tugging so hard, the steady threads of ache was still there as tiny streams of blood ran down his arm, staining the cuffs of his jacket.

Holy shit.

Holy shit, holy shit, HOLY SHIT.

The annoyance of the ticking dulled away while the roar of the shock grew louder. How was this possible? Did Alfred mix something in the neurotriptyline?

Kieran's fingers were still an ashy grey, but he swore if he looked harder, his skin appeared a little... pinker.

He wondered...

It was just a little bit of blood, not enough to cause a fuss about. He bled worse during the winter when his dry hands cracked.

Biting the bottom of his lip, Kieren began worrying his wrists against the shackles, forcing himself to bleed more.

"C'mon..." he hissed, throwing glances at the door, half-expecting Alfred to walk through. "C'mon..."

He tugged down his wrists hard, straining, grunting, using his blood as lubricant-

His right arm slipped through first. He nearly punched himself in the face with the force of his pull. He gasped, surprised it actually worked.

He first reached over to the lock, his bloody fingers grabbing at it, seeing if he could pry it open. When it refused to budge, he focused his attention back on his left wrist, tugging it down as hard as he could.

Gritting his teeth, his hand slipped through, nearly taking a whole strip of skin with him.

"AH!" He gasped, clutching his left hand to his chest. That fucking HURT.

Kieren couldn't believe it. He pulled out his hand again, staring at the ugly mess wildly. He was feeling _pain._

Compared to the injury, the amount of pain he was receiving was not equal. It should be more pain, stinging and sharp, and there's should be a lot more blood. Whatever what was happening to him had only started.

He shook his head, dispelling his surprise. He couldn't worry about that now. He needed to get out of here, call the police, find Lydia.

_Then_ afterwards, he could freak out.


End file.
